


Vigilance

by theinvalidedsoldier



Series: Goner [2]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter is 21, Protective Wade Wilson, graphic content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-06-01 07:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15138056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvalidedsoldier/pseuds/theinvalidedsoldier
Summary: Just to clarify that I do NOT romanticise mental illness(es); not excluding anorexia. I am well aware that overwhelming amounts of love and affection from your significant other/friends/family cannot in fact 'cure' someone or magically make them better, they're called 'mental disorders' for a reason.This fic however depicts a realistic (I hope) outlook on how admission and love can HELP someone struggling with anorexia (or any other type of mental illness) and can benefit them greatly when they are attempting to recover. Wade can't 'heal' Peter with kisses and hugs, and they both know that. You should too. That being said:Enjoy!





	1. Grateful

**Author's Note:**

> Just to clarify that I do NOT romanticise mental illness(es); not excluding anorexia. I am well aware that overwhelming amounts of love and affection from your significant other/friends/family cannot in fact 'cure' someone or magically make them better, they're called 'mental disorders' for a reason.
> 
> This fic however depicts a realistic (I hope) outlook on how admission and love can HELP someone struggling with anorexia (or any other type of mental illness) and can benefit them greatly when they are attempting to recover. Wade can't 'heal' Peter with kisses and hugs, and they both know that. You should too. That being said:
> 
> Enjoy!

   _Peter motherfucking Parker._  The boy who was going to be the death, the legitimate death of Wade Wilson. His Spidey, who had recently confessed to one overwhelmingly concerned mercenary - confessed being a slightly loose term, as it was more like an interrogation on Wade's behalf - that he had been struggling with an eating disorder.

  The sheer idea to Wade that Peter struggled with  _anything_  used to be unfathomable, but it was now a constant source of gut-wrenching guilt. Though he hadn't been medically diagnosed with a disorder, it most certainly didn't take a pompous ass-licker with a pHD to tell Wade that his baby boy was incredibly ill. He was so concerned with Peter's health that he was more than willing to put his general disdain for doctors aside to bring Peter to a professional to get him the help he so desperately needed.

  He had suspected for the longest time that something was up with the spider-fiend, as their rooftop patrols were often interrupted by abrupt sullen silences and waves of dizziness that Peter tried to pass off as anaemia. As fucking if. Admittedly, he had been furious about it for the longest time. Peter should've known that he would've pulled out all stops to help him with anything and everything that he needed.

  But alas, Peter didn't confide in him. It was hurtful, true, but Wade cut him some slack and gave him some leeway.  _'Maybe he's just really tired,'_ He would attempt to mollify himself, as he didn't know Peter's identity before the fateful evening of his admission.

  He didn't know what Peter was going through. He could've been working two or three jobs for all Wade knew, he might've been dealing with a spiteful girlfriend or  _boyfriend,_ the little fucker could've still been in college working his luscious ass off rushing after a stack of impending deadlines. There was a list as long as his arm; excuses Wade had come up with for Peter, on Peter's behalf as to why he had been acting so strange. None of them seemed to add up.

  It was only after a long day together, what day particularly, he couldn't remember, when Peter had refused to eat the celebratory chimichangas Wade bought after a successful day of being decent when he just  _knew._ Or at least he thought he knew, as he wasn't exactly renowned by many for thinking things through to their fullest potential.

  He made a vow to himself to do as much research into the situation as possible, in order to not jump to hasty conclusions.

  Wade was furious with himself at how perfectly clueless and ignorant he had been for such a long time. How many patrols had gone by where he had let Peter get away with neglecting his health? Letting him turn down food after hours of laborious and strenuous crime-fighting without so much as batting an eyelid? It just hadn't quite clicked in Wade's mind that the ever intelligent and oh so sensible Spider-Man would be hurting and damaging himself in such a way. It was unfathomable, unimaginable. And when it finally clicked as to what was really going on with his dearest friend and butt of all butt jokes, it was like a ram to the stomach with a two-ton weight.

  Admittedly, kindling a romantic relationship just a few days after Peter's nonconsensual confession wasn't exactly the brightest idea. They both knew that Peter was not even in a remotely good place at that point in time, but it just seemed oddly fitting.

  They had both revealed their full identities to each other, and Wade couldn't quite bare the idea of leaving Peter - it felt amazing to even know the name - in such a thoroughly vulnerable state. Physically and mentally alike, in any shape or form. The relationship was destined to be more than a little bit dysfunctional at times, as Wade didn't quite bag on the  _two_ of them being unstable as all hell, but they delved into their partnership head first without so much as a care in the world.

  You would always hear of the domestic occurrence of people gaining quite a significant amount of weight when they're in the supposed _'honeymoon phase'_ of the romance, which was a fact that both of them were obnoxiously aware of. You allegedly just 'let yourself go' and stop caring about looking good, and place more emphasis on feeling good, as you already have someone in your life to love you for who you are. Wade didn't want to bring such a sensitive topic up so early in their blossoming partnership, but it was pretty much inevitable since the relationship was founded on the day of Peter's breakdown.

  Though they both loved each other more than words could articulate, though Wade would gladly go off on a tangent about it, their relationship was slightly tense as neither of them had brought up Peter's health since the  _incident._  

  The night that Peter had told Wade about the development of his eating problems was when Wade had learned that it had started at a relatively early period of Peter's teenagehood. It had continued on to the present day, the only consistency in Peter’s life, as he had called it. A torturous consistency, at that.

  They talked for hours until they had both fallen asleep on the couch. Laughably thick limbs intermingled with the unhealthily thin, the contrast would've been hilarious if it were anyone else. In any other circumstance. It was only a cruel coincidence that Tony Stark and Peter's stupid university would intervene and make both of their lives entirely too busy to address the topic at hand. 

  The dynamic duo took yet another huge step after the face reveal when Wade packed up what little belongings that mattered from his own filthy den and moved into Peter's quaint apartment. It would've been true domestic bliss if not for meal times together that rarely took place in itself due to their overlapping schedules. It had been roughly three months, and Wade didn't see an overall huge improvement in Peter's health, and he knew that when the come down for when they were no longer busy fighting off every soul-consuming archetype came around, Peter's health would only continue to diminish.

-

  The come down came. Though it was a funny sentence, laden with innuendoes, in the given context it was most decidedly  _not_ very funny.

  Wade had seen it coming a mile away. Both himself and Peter had been working their asses off for weeks on end, either fighting off crazed bad guys to - in Peter’s case - staying up until three o’clock in the morning writing papers for class, that in itself would have any healthy body destined to fail. It was inevitable. Wade being so busy with constant jabs of disapproval from the haughty Avengers, and side-missions at far ends of the country, courtesy of S.H.I.E.L.D, he physically couldn't get to Peter in time to stop his downfall. All he could do was ease the landing.

  The missions and summons for both of them had abruptly stopped. Maybe the insensitive Avengers came to realise the toll it was taking on the dynamic duo, maybe they didn’t give a shit, nonetheless, they weren’t nearly as busy anymore. To say that this was a shock to Peter’s immune system, which was steadily becoming more and more accustomed to late nights and red-bull benders on empty stomachs, was an understatement.

  He perpetually looked like he was on the literal verge of passing out, Wade spent the vast majority of his time worrying that he would.

  There were times that Peter would attempt to let it go unnoticed, sheathed his discomfort from Wade as it were the only thing keeping him going. He would stand up that bit too fast or run that bit too far and would pass off the rapid stumbling and subsequent grappling for a solid surface to keep him upright like it was nobody’s business.

  Wade would pretend not to notice, as they both knew that the last thing the two of them needed at that moment was a jab at Peter’s ever deteriorating mental health.

  But now that they were both snug in their apartment, putting their feet up for the first time in literal weeks, the crushing immensity of the time spent apart came crashing down on them. It was suffocating

  Peter, if it were possible - evidently it  _was -_ had gotten thinner. He had lost a significant amount of weight in the face, which seemed to be the last area of his whole body that hadn't been thoroughly tainted by Peter's intentional negligence. He was the epitome of gaunt, sunken eyes, dishevelled hair, a slight bit of overtly disconcerting stubble. Disconcerting because; Peter always held his lack of facial hair in high regard, for some reason. He was skeletal.

  Every time Wade caught a glimpse of his baby boy, whenever he  _really_ looked at him, he could feel a distinct tingle of pure rage climbing up his back. Rationally, he understood that it wasn’t something either of them could control. Wade wasn’t exactly the poster boy for healthy coping mechanisms, but still, his rage was at least a little bit warranted. Watching the person that you love, that elecits such happiness and affection from you, fall apart in front of you never failed to make Wade want to curl up into a ball and cry. Or had him fighting the urge to violently shake some sense into Spidey-Boy himself.

  It was only when they were both getting ready for bed, Peter opting for the baggiest clothing options he could possibky find, when the change truly caught Wade's eye.

  Peter was throwing on a shirt, it was more than a little bit creased, and a bit rough around the edges. The polyester chafed against his brittle bones, blanketing him completely in a veil of tepid satisfaction. He turned around, unassuming as always, when he was met by the intense stare of his boyfriend.  _Oh God, not now._

"Peter," Wade drawled, his tone completely solemn and concerned. If his full name was being mixed into the equation, and not a frankly disturbing term of endearment that Peter secretly loved; he knew that Wade must be overwhelmingly morose and decidedly sensible - for once in his life. 

  Peter wasn't sure if he preferred - _tolerated_ \- said boyfriend's scrutinising gaze more with the leather mask on or off, as those ever emotive lenses could do wonders to someones self-assurance. He decided, however, that staring down an unmasked Wade was more daunting than not, so much more unfiltered, so much more raw and personal. The eye lock lasted for as long as Peter let it, as he knew that a stubborn Wade was a nonsensical one too. Wade would’ve burned out his retinas if he meant that he got the last word, Peter was sure of it. Once he knew that there was simply no diverting the situation, Peter sighed resignedly and held out his hands in reluctant submission.

  "We need to talk." Peter nodded in agreement. He supposed that they really did need to talk, the busy weeks that were thankfully far in the past had taken a toll on him, one that he hadn't anticipated as he assumed that Wade would be by his side. However, during the duration of the inter-galactic invasion that had all Avengers locked and loaded in the heart of NYC, good 'ol Deadpool was deciding to be dutiful for once in his life in Washington D.C. on a task he was  _'not at liberty to talk about' -_ though Wade had told him it was a weapons bust for S.H.I.E.L.D just ten seconds after the enigmatic announcement. How he was trusted with anything mystified Peter completely.

  With strong hands rested on his shoulders, Peter was guided to sit at the edge of their bed. He wrung his hands together anxiously. "I'll cut the bullshit because that's the last thing we need right now. You look like absolute crap, and this," He gestured up and down Peter's body with a forefinger, "Needs to stop."

  Peter remained quiet. "There is no fucking way, in the name of Bea Arthur herself, will I let you do this to yourself." The large body took a seat next to the significantly smaller man, a jaunting creak sounding out from the springs at the sudden perturbation. "We've both been busy, too fucking busy, those fucking ass-lickers have no idea - but! We're not busy anymore, and I won't tiptoe past the issue anymore, baby boy."

  "I get it,” Peter said, he didn’t know what else to say. “I know.” Wade’s gaze didn’t drop, didn’t falter, not even in the slightest.

  “We’ve been over this before. I know I can’t fix you, I know that’s not going to happen. But Jesus, Peter, fucking look at yourself.” Wade’s nostrils were flaring, it was clear to anyone that he was seething with just barely filtered anger. 

  “Wade I-“ A large hand held up signalled Peter to stop, he relented. “We’ll get through this, even it fucking kills me fifty times over. I’m helping you through this whether your sweet cheeks wants me to or not, it’s non-negotiable at this point sweetheart.”

  A flurry of sheer, unadulterated affection warmed Peter’s heart. He was eternally grateful, truly. Completely thankful. But he was terrified that he couldn’t live up to Wade’s expectations. He was terrified that he didn’t have it in himself to actually get better, actually recover. Years of habitual rituals embedded into his brain, habits he didn’t think he could break. When it came down to it, Peter knew that the only person that could make him better was himself. 

  “I’ll try, I promise that I’ll try,” Peter said, he said it mostly to mollify his concerned boyfriend. He wanted more than anything to wipe the sickeningly concerned look off his face, wanted his prominent features to relax, and to be the vulgar and nonchalant dickhead that he had reluctantly fallen quite in love with.

  There wasn’t much more to say on the matter. It wasn’t the right time to discuss it, they were both irrefutably exhausted. The air hadn’t cleared, the atmosphere was still tense, but they bypassed it in favour of curling up on the bed that they now shared. Never in the eventful year that Peter had known the Merc, had he ever seen Wade looking so unlike himself. So uncertain, yet so angry, so concerned. It didn’t make sense, but neither did Wade the vast majority of the time, so Peter expected nothing less.

  Peter felt mind-consumingly selfish, the world, the Avengers, even Deadpool, had far more influential things to worry about than some whiny white boy’s affinity for starving himself. The world’s imminent end, alien invasion, robotic rages, the works. The last thing any person needed on their conscious was the responsibility of an unstable super-hero.

  Realistically, the fate of Peter’s mental and physical state all came down to one question. Did he _want_ to get better? And though lying to himself and those who cared for him could get him far enough, the answer was no. No, he didn’t.

  This would prove to be difficult.

  

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a starter chapter, really, an introduction to the problems that Wade and Peter have yet to face. It’s a bit uneventful, a bit trivial, but it’s just a start.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who gave me the motivation to make this a series, as always, suggestions are what I live for.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Conflicted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this chapter being so ridiculously short, but I promise I do have plans for longer (and better ones) in the near future. I just want to set the scene as best as I can before launching into the plot again.

  _Vigilance_. Noun. Definition: the action or state of keeping careful watch for possible danger or difficulties.

  Synonymous definition: a constant source of annoyance and anxiety in Peter Parker's life. Wade was as vigilant and as attentive in their relationship as he had ever been before, and it was more exhausting than single-handedly trying to take down Oscorp, the Green Goblin and Venom _simultaneously_.

  They had at least one mealtime every day, Wade made sure of that. It was completely harrowing. It was humiliating to admit, but Peter would constantly be at the edge of his seat, jittering with sheer anxiety. Waiting in sheer terror, literally, for the next meal time. Between college, and his reprisal as a semi-permanent intern at the Stark Internship, the stress of an over-zealous boyfriend wasn't something he needed, and it was definitely was something he could've done without.

  But, thinking rationally, of course, his convoluted brain wouldn't take the help being offered to him without a fight. With the years of bad habits and fruitlessly neglecting his health, he was completely reliant on the ritualistic behaviour, the exertion, the starvation. He had become accustomed to the cruelties he had subjected himself to, and his mental and physical state had to pay the price for his laxity.

  As the days went by, Wade would go out of his way, no matter the occasion, to make some meal for the two of them in some shape or form. Sometimes it was haphazardly thrown together spaghetti or even takeout from the seemingly endless chain stores serving Americanised Mexican food, but it was always something. And he never forgot.

  Peter knew that Wade meant well, he knew that he simply wanted Peter to be the best version of himself he could be. That version, ideally, being _healthy_. But all of the meals shared between the two were eaten - or in Peter's case, picked at - in stoic silence, with Peter fidgeting uncomfortably in his designated seat under his boyfriend's barely filtered scrutiny. Wade would never comment on how much or how little he ate, the latter being the most common, but worded his disapproval through stern head shakes and solemn stares.

  And though Peter knew that the only way he could get better was through his own efforts, he didn't have it in himself to voice his annoyance and tell Wade to back off.

  _He deserves better_. It rang through his head every day, mocking him with cruel stubbornness, with no deterioration. It was a thought that never budged from his mind, a theory he couldn't bring himself to dishearten. Wade did deserve better.

  Through Wade's own hardships that he had to suffer through in the treacherous Weapon X programme; being tortured, and abused, and beaten down psychologically, the least Wade deserved was a mentally stable significant other. But alas, Peter was making life harder for someone else that wasn't him. His selfishness truly knew no bounds. Wade deserved the partner of everyone's dreams, one with no baggage.

  He deserved a boyfriend that would simply eat at the same table with him, and then curl up into his oafish sides at night in their cosy blankets after a home-cooked meal they had both devoured. He deserved a boyfriend that would actually have sex with him, one that wasn't too ashamed to run their fingers up and down his bulging arms and compliment his brazen eyes in the dim light. He deserved a boyfriend that would cause him no worry, no hardship, not one that would elicit such effort and suffering on both parts.

  The sex thing was something they had both discussed, but due to Peter's sheer revulsion at his own body, he couldn't bring himself to give the alleviation to Wade's libido that he most likely craved. Wade was probably inwardly rolling his eyes during the tedious conversation because _of course_ , this would be another thing Peter would deprive him of. First, it was his free time, then his happiness, now it was sex. How was he still with him? How was Peter tolerable to any degree?

  Peter had become conscious of everything around him, ever flaw he possessed, every potential irritant to the one person close to him that he was terrified would leave.

  Wade had self-esteem issues of his own, Peter knew this. He knew that Wade had voices boucning around in his head, which they both referred to as _'the boxes'_. He knew that Wade was irreversibly insecure about his skin, the textured skin, mottled with the scars that Peter absolutely adored because it made the ex-merc even more outlandish and unique than he could've ever hoped.

  Wade would've had every reason to be the diffident, insecure one in their relationship. He would've had every right to be the one basking in affection, and love, and attention. But Peter, special snowflake Peter, was the one receiving all of the attention. It wasn't right. 

  Every night he would lay beside Wade's warm body, and berate himself quietly for what he had allowed himself to do to their relationship. The changes in dynamic were not at all subtle, it was almost as though Wade was his nanny, or babysitter. All because Peter had to go and get himself hurt on the night of their team-up against a mechanic amateur, he had revealed it all. he had destroyed the only thing that meant anything to him, by worrying the man he loved every day with his jagged body, and disgustingly lithe limbs.

  Peter was conflicted. 

  Deep down, he knew in his heart, he didn't want to get better. It sent a hot flush of shame through his own self when he admitted it internally to himself, that the aid of his boyfriend was falling on deaf ears. That Wade's help was fruitless and futile in its endeavour because Peter knew that he was not going to put the effort in to make himself a better version of who he was now.

  But he wanted desperately to not feel this way. He wanted so desperately to give Wade the boyfriend he knew he deserved, the one he knew Wade craved, wanted. He didn't know if he had it in himself to change, even for the person that kept him going, even for the man that loved him unconditionally despite his lengthy list of flaws.

  Peter felt numb every day, every single day. He would go to bed, starving, thinking that said night would be the one when his body would finally give up, that he wouldn't wake up at all. And would wake up, surprised, wondering how he had managed to pull through another drole of a day. It was a routine, a cycle that he was accustomed to, but one that destroyed a little chunk of him with each second that passed. Peter didn't see a future wherein he was better, wherin he was happy with himself.

  He couldn't even entertain the idea of a future where he could eat food happily without analysing it, or checking calorific content. He couldn't enviasge a time where he could look in the mirror without crying, or bashing in the nearest solid surface. Or couldn't even imagine a time where he wouldn't ram his fingers down his throat to rid his already suffering stomach of the food he had allowed himself.

  Peter knew that worse things could happen than Wade breaking up with him. He could die, he was aware of that. He felt like he was dying already, but the journey was painstaking. His hair was falling out, his knees could barely carry him, and his fingernails would turn a pale shade of purple even whilst wrapped in layers of bundles up cardigans and sweaters. He was dying, he was sure of it. And how pathetic was that? 

  

 


	3. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has been a damn long time in the works, and I don't really have an excuse for it, to be honest. School wasn't necessarily keeping me busy or anything, but I suppose it's the subject matter of this story. Just like for some, this might not be very pleasant to read, it's not very pleasant to write about, either. Surprise surprise.
> 
> I also genuinely wasn't sure what direction I wanted the Peter and Wade (+ their tricky relationship) to take, it's a tricky thing to write, as I don't want to trivialise, romanticise or invalidate anyone's potential experience with any of the mental disorders written about in this story.
> 
> Also, IMPORTANT: There is a pretty graphic depiction of a panic attack about 600 words or so into the story, if this could influence you in any negative way, I highly suggest that you do not read it. Thank you.

  Peter had gained weight. 

  He wasn't the only one who noticed, Wade had too. And  _god,_ he had looked so happy.

  He wasn't nearly as insensitive enough to say it out loud. But the,  _"You've gained weight, Pete."_ was implied through the full-body hug that was thrust upon him one evening when he was getting dressed. Wade had been grinning from ear to ear all day after that. He didn't have the guts to even dare look sad for a millisecond, even though it felt like a lead weight was weighing his stomach to the floor, ripping out his insides every time he looked at himself in any reflective surface.

  A hole had ripped straight through his chest when he had looked in the mirror one morning to find that his ribs weren't seen easily as they had been the week before. He grappled at his hair at the realisation that his thighs had far too much meat on them, he felt like he was overheating. He wasn't that big a few days ago, something had changed. His heart started to beat rapidly, he had felt it hammering against his ribcage, he had eaten too much. He had eaten too much for far, _far_  too long. Peter had become sloppy, lenient, and now he was paying the price.

  His thighs pooled out around him when he sat down, pathetic, disgusting. His arms had inflated and stuck to his sides, repugnant, awful. His stomach was protruding and jiggly, sickening, repulsive.

  Peter had let Wade 'take care of him' when he had fallen ill the week before with a bad head cold, and wasn't even remotely lucid enough to turn down the bowls of chicken soup that were pumped into him on a daily basis. Liquid calories with soup soaked loaves of bread, bloating him to oblivion, not that he was quite conscious enough to notice.

  Was Wade trying to help? Absolutely, he was. Did he have Peter's best interests at heart? Without a shadow of a doubt. But did he know the implications of what he was doing, pumping him with liquid obesity during a moment of vulnerability? Yes, of course, he did.

  Peter's hands shook as he ran his cold fingers down his chest, only to pull back with horror when he felt the bulging fat residing there. It was weighing him down, squishing and squelching with every prod. The room was closing in on him, the walls were threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs.

  And there was of course, back again with vengeance, that inner conscience in his head that burrowed deep in his brain that persistently reminded him of how utterly intolerable he was. Undeserving of the unadulterated love and affection that was washed over him on a daily basis. Said conscience had dwindled and quietened for some time, but now it was back. And it was making up for its lack of presence in Peter's mind by doubling, tripling, quadrupling its hold on him two-fold.

  Peter had been trying so hard. Comically hard, at that point. He had desperately wanted to see a genuine smile on his boyfriend's face because of the hardship he had been putting him through for months on end. Wade was happy with what he saw, that was good enough, right? It had to be. Wasn't that the goal? The end game? What did it matter that Peter literally wanted to grab the nearest scissors and saw of the mounds of flesh taking homage on his body? If someone loved him despite his blubber, shouldn't he at least be satisfied at the very very least? Probably. But he wasn't.

  The hard truth was just that; Peter would be unhappy without food, and unhappy _with_ it. It was that sort of toxic relationship that never had a happy ending. That one couple that was destined to destroy each other, but for that same reason, stayed together. 

  A panic attack was coming, Peter knew that much for certain, and he knew in the way that his fingers were prickling that it was bound to be a bad one. It was clawing its way up his stomach, chest and neck, residing in his throat. Choking, he felt like he was choking. Tears were streaming from his eyes in rivulets of pure panic before he could so much as think about wiping them away. Jesus Christ, he was dying. He was dying, Peter was losing himself in this and he knew that he was a fool to try and stop it. He wasn't functioning, and he was going completely numb. Fingers, toes, legs, arms, mouth. Numb. Attempting to sustain normal breathing was pointless. In between gasps for air he let out an indecipherable yell for something, he wasn't sure what at the time, he figured it out later.

  He sat down on the floor, resting his head on the side of his bed, as if that would help. It wasn't getting worse, but it most certainly was not getting better. 

  How Peter had let himself get this way, he didn't know. Surely a few bowls of soup wasn't enough to do this, surely. Or maybe he had been too lenient on himself for far too long, yet again. If that be the case, he deserved it. He deserved every last indecent, self-destructive thought he had ever deemed about himself. 

   _'You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it. You deserve it.'_

_'You're sickening, absolutely sickening. Sickening. Sickening. Sickening. Sickening. SIckening. Sickening. Sickening'_

_'Breathe. Even though you're dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. Dying.'_

Peter was still trying to breathe, and it still wasn't working. His hands grappled at his wild locks of his hair, in a futile attempt to ground himself, to save himself. His hands went from hair to the ground, pushing at the creaky wooden floorboards hopelessly, then back to the hair again. He shut his eyes as tightly as they would let him, scrunched closed with a grimace and a gasp. He knew that there were techniques that were supposed to stop this, as Peter was more than aware that this was a panic attack, but nothing was registering. His head wasn't working, logic wasn't comprehensible, or even entertainable. Everything was closing in on him, he was a captive to his own minds will. Everything was closing in. Until.

  Hands on his own, "Pete, I'm going to need you to calm down for me, okay?"

  Peter's eyes flung open, his hands darting outwards in another act of alarm. His breathing still wasn't stabilising. How much time had passed since this had started? How long had he been on the floor? Peter didn't remember.

  Wade retracted his hands, "Sorry, I'm sorry. Look, my hands are here, okay? I didn't mean to scare you, baby boy." 

  The burly man sat, cross-legged, in front of the panicking arachnid. The sight would've been gut-wrenchingly hilarious if the situation wasn't so incredibly unfunny. A man that broad had no business looking so small. As it was, there was a nice wedge of space between the pair, which Peter appreciated, he was already feeling far too claustrophobic as it was. Wade kept his hands to himself, but on his own lap, present and ready to soothe and aid in any way that they could.

  "Ground yourself, Pete. Okay? You're here, you're alright, stay present in the now baby boy," Wade cooed. Surprisingly, it wasn't in any way patronising or condescending, it was just a friend wanting to help another. "You're just having a panic attack right now, but this is going to go away. It's okay, it's okay. This is temporary, this will pass. Just breathe for me."

  "Look me in the eyes, Petey, just try and focus on something. Look at me." 

  Peter's eyes had been darting from various corners of the room, the right corner, the left corner, the ceiling, wall, the other wall, the floor. It was making him dizzy, immeasurably dizzy, but focusing was the furthest but also the most prominent thing on his mind at that point. He made eye contact with Wade, hazel eyes on the darker brown. They darted a few times here and there before fastening themselves properly. 

  "Okay, well done Pete, you're doing great. Just keep watching me, and breathe for me. Deep breaths for me, baby boy."

  Wade raised his hand slowly, displaying it to Peter, before slowly resting it on Peter's trembling thigh. His breathing was regulating, finally, fucking finally. He was coming down from what could've been absolutely catastrophic, being eased into normalcy by his boyfriends thumb softly kneading circles into his leg. He now felt nauseous, and still light-headed enough that he could very possibly be pushed aside with a pinkie, but he was now coming back to earth. "Count up to ten with me."

  The reassuring thumb didn't stray from its mark, nor did the helpful and calm tone his usually hyperactive boy toy took waver in the slightest. His breathing had calmed decently, he was coherent enough at least. That was definitely a change. And managed to stutter out what vaguely resembled an, "Okay."

  "One." Wade pressed his thumb into his thigh more intently, the circles never quickening their pace.

  "One," Peter garbled, he could do it, he could. He just needed to try, and he'd do it.

  "Two." Wade slowly raised his free hand, and carefully removed Peter's hands from his hair. That had been starting to hurt, too. 

  "Two."

  "Three." At the same time now, their breathing was starting to level up with each other's, his vision was clearing, hands still clammy but less numb. There was a dull throb at his scalp, Peter supposed he had been pulling on his hair much harder than he had thought.

  "Four." Still together in unison with each other, Wade's second hand now moved to Peter's second thigh, taking the same stance his other had been for the last few minutes. The feeble presses and circles of reassurance.

  "Five."

  "Six." He was getting much more steady, but the nausea was starting to seep into his breaths like a similarly bad headache, it was particularly unpleasant around his boyfriend. Don't let him get sick now.

  "Seven."

  "Eight." Wade's gaze was as comforting as it was stern. Peter imagined that the gaze would entail a very severe conversation in his not so distant future, but at that moment he was just enjoying the sensation of actually being able to breathe again. And what a wonderful sensation it was too, breathing. 

  "Nine." This little piggy went to the market, and this little piggy stayed at home, and this little piggy had roast beef for dinner, and this fat little piggy had none. And the fat little piggy wheezed and choked, as the other little piggy's watched, and he fell down to the ground in his fat little piggy hole and couldn't get up in the morning! Peter wasn't sure where that had come from. Delerium, probably. He was still light-headed.

  "Ten."

  And then the world was right again, for at least a split second, when he reached that absolutely amazing number and didn't cough and splutter out a rebuke. Jesus Christ, that had been a wild ride of emotions that was becoming far too common. Wade knew about the panic attacks, of course, but had never gotten the absolute  _pleasure_ of seeing one in action before. He was getting the full Peter Parker experience now.

  "Are you feeling a bit better now, baby boy?" Wade asked, his face was furrowed with concern, what an empath ladies and gents. Peter nodded, and gave as genuine of a smile that he could muster at that moment in time. "Jesus H Christ Pete, stop fucking scaring me like that." 

  His hands retracted from his thighs, which was a presence that was immediately missed, Peter let out a sniff. Discontentment, he supposed. "Would a hug be too much right now?" Peter shook his head, he would just about die for one. And for a lovely few seconds there, it felt like he really was going to. 

  Marred arms pushed themselves off the ground before helping Peter from the dusty floor himself, guiding him to the bed. He guessed sitting on the floor for long periods of time wasn't particularly ideal, either. They both lay down with one another, Wade's arms now firmly -- but not too firmly -- around Peter's stomach, his heartbeat beating against his back. Wade was as almost as panicked as Peter was, the sight of your loved one on the ground and gasping for air wasn't a sight he relished in. In fact, when he had heard a loud yelp from Peter's room, he knew with the heavy set in his chest that something was not at all right. He was just glad that he had come in when he did, as the idea of Peter vomiting or passing out made his heart clench, and almost beat in an entirely different rhythm. He knew for a fact that Peter still was overwhelmingly unhappy with himself, a trait he shared with him, to a debatably less severe degree. I mean, bullets to the head weren't nearly as taboo for him now, please. 

  In typical Wade fashion, his conscience (however dwindling that fella seemed to be these days) and the boxes internally swore at him, berating him for not being earlier. He could've prevented the escalation of the attack. Because that's definitely what it was. And damn, Wade doubted he had seen a panic attack that bad since the day he had one himself in front of the mirror. Ah, self-destruction was a funny thing. 

  "We're talking about this later on, Petey-pie. A'ight?" He felt another nod against his chest, followed by a noncommittal hum. Peter was falling asleep, so Wade might as well do the same. 

  Sleeping was an interesting way of prolonging the inevitable. It was almost a gamble. You didn't know whether your lucid life problems were going to follow you into your dreams or not. You just crossed your fingers and willed for the best in the hopes that when you conk out, you're taken to a place of momentary happiness where you can pretend for a few hours, you're doing completely okay. Sometimes you were lucky enough to dream of a happier time, or to even not dream at all. But sometimes reality would slip itself into your unconsciousness, and let you relive the day's horrors in an even more dramatised manner. Out of the cuddling couple on the bed, one was lucky, one was not. One was prolonging as much as he could, and one was twisting and turning in anticipation of what was to come.

 


End file.
